was still. Then the attempt was renewed, and the handle turned round and back and round and back again.
‘Come in, can’t you, it’s not bolted!’ called out Mrs Newman.
‘It’s that priceless Fidge, of course,’ said Lesbia. ‘She and a door handle are natural enemies.’
A more agitated twist round and back and round again, then an unnecessary shove against the door, which flew open, and Fidgfumblasquidiot rolled lightly into the room, not looking at any of the company, but rather at ghosts who might be in the background.
‘Well, Fidge, what has scattered you now?’ asked her young mistress.
‘Please ’m, it’s that puppy’s a been and got into your bed, and drawn a map!’
‘Got in! a thing that can hardly crawl? I put him in myself, Fidge, but I won’t let it happen again; he shall have a bed of his own, poor little pet.’
As Fidgfumblasquidiot withdrew, her aunt the housekeeper appeared at the door.
‘Come in, Mrs Fenrake,’ said the vicar; then observing that she looked anxiously at his sister, he added,—‘Mrs Newman has been troubled with dreams—indigestion I suppose, but she’ll be better presently; we’re going out for a turn.’
‘Indeed, sir!’ said the housekeeper; ‘well, that’s strange now; I was dreaming myself last night. I dreamt Fidge married a bishop. Well, sir, I was a-going to ast you as I might go for a few days to see my brother at Norwich. I’ve had a letter from his wife; she says, says she, as he’s getting a invalid—quite breaking up. He can’t work, says she, any later than four o’clock; then he goes out for three or four hours on his bicycle, and when he comes home he can’t fancy nothink for his supper excep a little roast beef
